


Home

by lubluebell



Category: The Front Bottoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-05-29 06:58:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15067670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lubluebell/pseuds/lubluebell
Summary: Brian can't come to terms with himself. Mat can't come to terms with Brian, either. Is it only sexual tension, or something much more difficult to ignore?





	1. Part 1

Brian Sella is going home.  
Well, of course he is. He’s been talking about it for weeks, ever since he’d solidified plans to spend a week or two with his family after the end of his tour. Ever since he’d found a reason to leave.  
He’s made a habit of tacking his impending departure onto the end of nearly all his conversations, regardless of how irrelevant it has been. At the end of positive stories, he’d beam that he couldn’t be more excited to share such good memories with his family. In the case of more negative scenarios, he’d thank a God he didn’t believe in that he’d soon have time to roll the tough times off his shoulders in his hometown.  
Despite the amount of hype he’s attempted to generate around his trip, he is beginning to feel differently now that he has to pack for the six-hour drive from Vermont to New Jersey. This feeling is intensified by the fact that he hasn’t had a single beer yet today, and it’s too close to the drive now to drink unless he wants to end up in a fiery collision somewhere along the interstate. He groans. He is considering skipping the whole “packing” ordeal and just winging it when it feels necessary to change clothes. At this point, social boundaries and the law are the only things stopping him from going commando.  
He throws clothes into a suitcase without even looking at them – or, he thinks to himself with the ghost of a self-pitying grin – bothering to fold them. He wishes creativity would come to him the way it used to. Once, song lyrics had flowed from his brain onto a sheet of paper like tap water. Impure and muddled, but somehow still inimitable and beautiful to listen to. Nowadays, he has to force out each word like he’s squeezing them from a practically empty tube of toothpaste, and they lack their characteristic spark and relatability.  
His wastebasket is spilling over with crumpled balls of paper. He has as many excuses as he does failed song attempts. So far, highlights of his attributing include tinnitus, thought-consuming nymphomania, temporary insanity, low blood sugar, high blood sugar, and an addiction to non-prescription antacids. The most frequent reason he cites is still being too preoccupied by his trip home, but he knows that even that isn’t anywhere close to the truth behind his writer’s block.  
It’s all Mat Uychich’s fault.  
Until very recently, Mat had inspired and supported Brian through the process of writing all his songs. He’d stuck through countless rough drafts, helped manipulate lyrics into fitting just right, and treated all of Brian’s spelling errors like they were nothing more than an alternate, superior usage of the English language. He’d even gone on more late-night energy drink runs than Brian could count, always returning with a sleepy smile that made Brian’s pulse rocket faster than any number of toxically green beverages ever could.  
That was, until things had gotten weird. Very weird. Until Brian had scheduled his impromptu trip home, and discovered a sudden, convenient love for his family that he’d never been in touch with before.  
Brian feels a pair of eyes burning holes in his back, and he knows who it is before he even turns around. He can tell by the soft breathing in the doorway, the unmistakable scent of musky cologne and apples, and the rhythmic patter of fingertips against thin wood. He’s tapping out a melody Brian knows well, although Brian doubts that Mat even knows he’s doing it. The lyrics float into Brian’s head despite his best efforts to block them out. You’ve got me stuck to where I’m sitting...  
The hotel the band has been staying in does not have thick walls. Brian learned that the first night, when he was attacked by the sound of someone having passionate sex to the left of him, and Mat falling asleep to soft indie music to the right of him. Mat’s fingers drumming against them could very well be enough to splinter them. In any case, they’re beyond enough to splinter Brian’s last shred of nerves. He spins around like a coked-up ballerina, somehow unable to bring his eyes to Mat’s.  
“What?” Brian snaps, but he doesn’t mean to sound so harsh. He can’t help it. His brain is screaming at full volume for him to get away, and it’s hard to talk normally over it. Okay, so maybe it’s been a few days since he’s gotten close to enough sleep.  
Mat is unphased by Brian’s viciousness. At this point, he’s had no choice but to get used to Brian treating him coldly. He tries not to let the sinking of his heart into his voice, and he wrinkles his nose in a half-assed attempt to convey that Brian is not upsetting him. He’s always been a dreadful liar, even when it comes to body language.  
“Sorry. Jesus, Brian...” He twists his feet into the archaic shag carpet so that he doesn’t have to look at Brian not looking at him. “Just wanted to see if you need help with anything before you head out.”  
“Nope. I’m good, dude.” Brian is sure to stick a nonspecific friend term onto the end so maybe Mat won’t know that he’s blushing. It’s the first time they’ve exchanged more than a few words in days, and Brian can already feel his body reacting. He silently pleads with it to calm down, but it won’t listen to him. His pulse accelerates as more sweat than usual begins to accumulate on his palms, and he has to turn back to his suitcase so that Mat won’t notice any of it.  
“Okay,” Mat says, but he doesn’t leave. Brian wishes he would. He wishes he could finish packing in peace and slip discretely out into the hotel parking lot, not to resurface until his feelings are properly extinguished. As always, Mat is making things difficult for Brian without even knowing it.  
As if purposely ignoring all of Brian’s hopes, Mat pads over to Brian’s bed and perches on the edge. His eyes almost glow in the insufficient overhead lighting, and his hair is framing his face perfectly, and Brian has to fight every urge to reach out and run his fingers through it. Mat smiles, like he knows exactly what Brian is thinking about, and takes great satisfaction in the turmoil it’s setting off in his head. Brian’s tongue swells to be about six sizes too big, and for the first time he finds himself wondering if Mat even knows why Brian has been acting differently around him. Does he remember that night? Would it even matter to him if he did remember?  
“What’s wrong?” Mat’s voice is gentle, and Brian’s mind is screeching with a million thoughts at once. Run from him. Kiss him. Throw a shirt at him. Tell him to fuck off. Push him onto his back, and then...  
“Nothing, obviously.” Brian says quickly, so that maybe the uninvited, tantalizing mental images accompanying that last thought will subside. “I’m going home soon, ya know. What could possibly be wrong? I’m happy as hell, man. Couldn’t be happier.” He realizes too late that he probably should have stopped a bit earlier if his goal was to avoid sounding deranged. Mat eyes him curiously, and Brian has to resist the impulse to squirm under his gaze. Mat’s fingers begin to tap absentmindedly against the comforter, making a sound like snow falling onto more snow.  
“Alright,” says Mat. “If you’re sure.”  
For some reason, this infuriates Brian. He tears the zipper shut without even packing the rest of his clothes and hauls the suitcase roughly against the floor. Suddenly, ending up in a fiery collision somewhere along the interstate doesn’t seem so bad.  
“You’re making me fucking late, Mat!” he calls before slamming the door. He ignores the almost immediate guilt that staunches his anger. He also ignores every atom in his body that yearns to turn right back around, to apologize profusely, and to crawl onto Mat’s lap and take a well-needed nap.  
The drive back home is unimaginably lonely.


	2. Part 2

It’s nearly noon, and Mat is already higher than a frat boy being hazed. Brian is coming home today. Mat only knows this because he overhead Tom talking to Brian on the phone – a conversation on which Mat definitely did not eavesdrop while pretending to be asleep. Being without Brian is beginning to get under his skin, in a much different way than Brian himself tends to get under his skin.  
Since they met, Mat and Brian have had a special connection. “Special” being defined by their unabashed need to spend every second of free time together, and the instant psychic link that allowed for them to almost always know when the other wanted to smoke a blunt, chug a beer, or eat something greasy. Although neither of them has ever said it, it is like they were made to be best friends. And that’s what they are, Mat reminds himself for what must be the hundredth time. They are best friends, and nothing more.  
Mat takes another hit, hoping this time to smoke out the thoughts in his head. What would it be like to see Brian again? Would be still be unhappy with him? Would things ever be the same?  
Thankfully, New York City is just the place to be high and lost in thought. It doesn’t matter that Brian will be showing up soon. There are so many people in the area, Mat tells himself that he won’t even have to pay Brian any attention. He could always tune in on the sound of traffic, or focus his gaze on the ever-present flashing lights, or disappear amongst the swarms of pedestrians crowding the sidewalks. He can’t help thinking that it would be nice to just blend into the crowd and not be recognized by anyone. Was that even thinkable in a city so big? Mat finds himself wondering how it’s possible to feel so small yet so unmistakable all at once.  
The NYC hotel is much nicer than the Vermont one was. It has marble floors, and soft couches, and suites with more than enough bedrooms to go around. A window in the dining area provides a stunning view of a few neighboring strip clubs, and Mat allows the menagerie of lights and colors to cloud his vision. He breathes the smoke in, counting to eleven in his head before releasing it. It’s a trick Brian taught him when they were teenagers. He’s high enough to smile at the memory, but sober enough to sigh at what’s become of his relationship with Brian.  
Before Mat can get too lost down memory lane, the electronic beep of Tom sliding the keycard through the door handle sounds, and Mat has no choice but to act causal. He leans back a bit too far in his chair, trying very hard to look both happy and busy, yet still somehow jaded.  
Brian hasn’t changed at all, but Mat doesn’t know why he was expecting to see any difference in him. A week and a half isn’t ample time for a person to transform. He’s gotten a bit tanner and his curls are beginning to brush against his shoulders, but those are minor details. It is safe to say that Mat is the only person to detect them, or even to care about them.  
Brian smiles at Mat almost awkwardly, like he didn’t think he’d run into him in the hotel suite they were to be sharing. Mat smiles back, tipping his chair back just a little too far in doing so and crashing onto the floor. It doesn’t hurt very badly, but hearing Brian snicker makes Mat want to curl into a ball and never get back up, even when Tom offers him a hand. He takes it reluctantly, wobbling on his feet. The room is twirling around him in a way that is beginning to make him regret getting this stoned.  
“Hi, Brian.” He speaks as if he hasn’t just made an ass of himself. “How was your trip?”  
“Um, great,” Brian lies. “Jersey’s gorgeous this time of year. Well, you know that...” And then, as if in a pre-regretted afterthought: “My mom says to tell you hi from her. Says she misses you, or some shit.”  
Brian doesn’t mention exactly how many times his mother had asked where Mat was. Any trips home he’d taken in the past had always been with Mat, and everyone knew it. He also didn’t mention the fact that he’d spent nearly every waking moment of his vacation wishing he could be in Vermont, or New York, or wherever Mat happened to be at any given time. He didn’t mention the fact that he’d found it near impossible to enjoy himself without Mat with him.  
Mat mumbles something about missing Brian’s mother, although it sounds a lot like he’s saying that he misses Brian. No one seems to notice his supposed slip of the tongue, as it’s obvious that he’s high, and even more obvious that he’s trying very hard to make it seem like he doesn’t miss Brian.  
Tom takes one look between Brian and Mat before excusing himself, saying something about getting some sleep and disappearing into one of the bedrooms.  
Brian squints at Mat and takes a step forward. His forehead crinkles, and his eyes search Mat’s face until heat flushes Mat’s skin. Brian inhales sharply and Mat blinks at him, refusing to give up the causal act he’s been forcing. Even when Brian reaches forward to touch his face. However, when Brian withdraws his fingers splotched with blood, Mat begins to consider losing his cool.  
“You’re bleeding,” Brian states the obvious.  
“Oh,” Says Mat.  
Mat shuffles off into the bathroom before Brian gets another second to look at him. In the dizzy, out of focus view of himself he gets through the mirror, he can barely see a thin trickle of blood on the side of his head. He brushes his hair back, and the scrape isn’t so bad. Besides, he can’t even feel it through the drugs, the shame, and the lingering electricity of Brian’s skin on his.  
The bathroom door creaks open, and Brian enters with a bottle of whiskey and a half-crushed box of bandages. He smiles at the tile beneath his feet, and he wonders if Mat will even remember Brian’s stroke of maternal compassion in the morning. He decides that even if he doesn’t, it will be worth it.  
Because Brian has spent the entire cab ride from New Jersey to New York sipping on assorted liquors, he sees no issue with helping Mat tilt his head over the sink and pouring a healthy amount of whiskey over the scrape, all the while muttering about disinfecting the wound, and that he should have been a “god damn medicine man”. As soon as Mat processes the burning of the alcohol – which admittedly takes a lot longer than it should – he yanks his head away and wipes the whiskey from his face. He’s unsurprisingly shocked, and the blinding pain on the side of his face fuels the snap of his head back to face Brian.  
“What was that for?” His voice is choked, like maybe he’s crying. He’s not crying; his throat is raw from the weed, and his skin burns from the whiskey.  
“Jesus, man.” Brian places the whiskey innocently back onto the sink. “No need to freak out on me. I’m trying to help you. Don’t want you getting, uh...cellulite.” He draws out the last word, because he has a feeling it’s not the one he meant but he is willing to bank on it for the sake of a potentially irrecoverable point.  
“What?” Mat pauses, his eyes drifting upward as if he can literally see Brian’s mistake written just above his head. “Oh, did you mean cellulitis?” His voice is soft, and his lips look even softer, and Brian can barely keep his heart from jumping right through his ribcage.  
“Yeah, whatever, dude!” He raises his voice so he won’t start whispering, start moving closer to Mat. “Not like it even matters. You know what I meant.”  
“Brian...” Mat’s eyes search Brian’s face.  
“Fuck do you want?”  
For the first time in a long time, something within Mat shifts. Whether it’s due to the weed, or the whiskey still stinging in his scrape, or Brian’s carelessness, his heart begins to pound in his ears.  
For the first time in a long time, Mat Uychich does something bold.  
He snatches the bottle of whiskey from the sink and splashes a small amount onto Brian before he can allow himself to reconsider. Despite there being no way the whiskey had physically harmed Brian, he looks like Mat has just slapped him across the face. Using his height advantage, he snags the whiskey and pours it over Mat’s head until Mat’s senses finally catch up to his brain, and he tries to reach for the bottle. In a classic middle school maneuver, Brian holds it just out of Mat’s reach with a smug smile, taunting him for not being able to reach it. That is, until Mat gets ahold of the arm attached to the bottle and shakes it around so that a stream of whiskey gushes over Brian’s head, sticking his hair to his forehead in a dripping, curly curtain.  
“Dude!” Brian yells, stumbling backwards and reaching out. His hands find Mat’s shirt, and they collide with both one another and the floor in a tangle of limbs and a puddle of whiskey. Brian attempts to splash the alcohol once more over Mat, but the emptied bottle provides only a few pathetic drops, so he lets it fall to the ground with a heavy thud.  
In that moment, once the whiskey has been drained and their anger begins to subside, Brian and Mat both realize rather suddenly that they are very, very close to each other. Their bodies are intertwined. Brian’s chest rises and falls beneath Mat, and Mat feels impossibly warm against Brian, and the friction of their bodies seems to make it impossible to do anything but move even closer together. Or at least, it’s criminally easy to blame the friction on Mat leaning in, and Brian’s hands snaking under Mat’s shirt, and the rapidly diminishing distance between their mouths.  
The kiss is a brief, whiskey flavored, heavily intoxicated mashing of lips and tongues and gentle moans that feel impossible to keep in. Brian’s hands begin to move downward, and Mat suddenly snaps back into a somewhat sober mindset. He pulls away from Brian so abruptly that half of Brian’s grunt is left hanging in the air.  
“Sorry...” Mat’s face burns with a familiar heat so intense that it could not possibly be produced by weed alone. “God, Brian, I –” He has to pause and catch his breath, trying very hard not to let his gasps for air fall onto Brian. “I just don’t understand you.”  
Brian’s stomach feels as if it’s caving in. This is the most crushing thing that Mat could have possibly said to him. Since they’ve met, Mat has been the only person Brian could rely on to always understand him. His drunken mind can’t handle this kind of confession, and every burst of electricity and excitement that Mat had awakened in him drains away. Brian pulls himself up hard, tossing Mat onto the floor. He doesn’t look back at Mat – at least, not until a few fateful words come trailing after him, small and shy and breathy.  
“Brian, I like you.”  
Brian turns around sharply and injects every negative emotion he’s felt in his life into his voice.  
“I’m not gay.”  
And then he walks away, choosing a room at random and ignoring Tom’s half-asleep complaints as he crawls into his bed and tries very hard not to cry.  
Mat spends the night on the bathroom floor, letting the whiskey drench him and the overhead light blind him. There’s no music to play him into any kind of restful slumber, so he lets the periodical dripping of the sink serve as a shoddy replacement, and eventually he manages some artistic interpretation of sleep.


	3. Part 3

Brian spends the majority of the next day getting acquainted with the shockingly many variations of flowers he finds at a local supermarket. He’d never realized how many different types of rose there are, or how expensive it is to buy a fistful of dead plants wrapped in colored tissue paper.  
He isn’t anywhere close to sure that Mat will even like or accept flowers. Besides, isn’t it a little suspect for one guy to buy another guy flowers? A constant scream in Brian’s head chants out a vicious loop of things like: “Only gay dudes buy flowers for other dudes”, and “Holy fucking shit, am I gay?”, and “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t be gay. There’s no way I’m gay, right? I like girls. Not Mat. Girls.”  
The only effective method of quieting these voices is Brian telling himself that the flowers are nothing more than an apology. Plus, flowers are good for anybody. They smell nice, and they’re pretty, and they can totally have platonic connotations, too. Brian tells himself that if the world were to frown upon one best friend buying another sorry-for-being-a-dick flowers, then it wouldn’t be the kind of world he’d want to live in. He nods to himself, the roses clutched tightly in his sweaty grasp.   
Brian remains partially reassured about the flowers throughout his whole walk to the register. The cashier is a young girl with a pretty smile, and it only takes some innocent half-flirting on her part to make Brian rethink his entire apology.  
“Are these for a girlfriend?” She acts like Brian’s answer will not affect her in any way.  
“Uh, no.” Suddenly all too aware of his hands, Brian scratches just a bit too ferociously at the side of his head. “Not at all, actually. They’re for my friend. My guy friend.” And then, because his already too-long explanation doesn’t satisfy him, he adds quickly: “Not like a boyfriend. Literally just a guy friend. It’s, uh... He died. These are for his grave.” He wrestles the lie from his mouth.  
“Oh, God...” The girl looks up at him with eyes the size of saucers, equal parts uncomfortable and sympathetic. “I’m so sorry.”  
“No, don’t be. Everyone’s gotta go sometime, right?”  
“Right... Wow.”  
“Wow what?”  
“You’re just so strong.”  
Under a number of other circumstances, this kind of praise over a sick lie would have made Brian feel guilty. It’s just that he can’t remember the last time someone referred to him as “strong”. He’s gotten “weak”, “pussy”, and “bitch” a handful of times within the last month alone, and the refreshing little burst of undeserved pride welling up within him is addictive. He can’t help but pursue more.  
“Hey, what do you say you and I grab lunch or something sometime?” In asking the girl on a date, Brian notes with approval that he can’t possibly be gay, or even the littlest bit into Mat. The girl flashes him a smile.  
“That’d be sweet. I’m actually off in fifteen if you’re not busy now.”  
Brian finds himself faced with a surprisingly weighty fork in the road. He could easily tell the girl some bullshit about having to mourn his friend all day and still make plans with her for another time coming up. That way, he could properly apologize to Mat and still get to go out with the girl. Then again, wouldn’t that be choosing Mat over a beautiful woman? While the bro code would typically condone this, it is not in play here because he and Mat technically have no preexisting plans together. It would feel a whole lot like choosing guys over girls, and that was not a direction that Brian would allow himself to take.   
“That works for me.”  
“Great,” Her face lights up. “I’m Emma.”

In retrospect, Brian realizes that maybe making immediate plans with Emma was kind of a bad move. While lunch and subsequent coffees go off without a hitch, Brian soon finds himself faced with Emma’s eyes flitting toward the roses, and her mouth suggesting she accompany him to place them on his supposed friend’s grave.  
“I just feel bad that I crashed it, you know?” She replies to Brian’s panicked attempt to say that he would just go another day. “Roses don’t last very long without water. I wouldn’t want to be the reason why you don’t get to give them to your friend.”  
“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I’m out with a gorgeous girl, and I could visit him any day.”  
This has the exact opposite effect on Emma than Brian had hoped. Her forehead creases, and the corners of her mouth tilt downwards. She looks more troubled than distracted by Brian’s compliment.  
“No, I just feel terrible. Where is he buried?”  
“Uh... You know. Not far.”  
“Let’s go, then.” She smiles, and Brian smiles back through an internal wave of frantic shrieks.   
One suspiciously long trip to the bathroom later, Brian returns to Emma with the directions to the nearest cemetery on his phone and a forced smile on his face. The hangover he thought he’d evaded is beginning to creep over him, and he can’t help but wish he’d never bought the stupid flowers in the first place.  
The taxi dumps Brian and Emma off somewhere in Queens. The cemetery is pretty – large and sprawling, dotted with weeping willows and the occasional weeping person. With a level of false confidence that is probably not appropriate for a graveyard, Brian leads Emma through a maze of headstones. His eyes skim each one in hopes of finding something usable. He ignores the persistence of his heart telling him that he’s doing something wrong, and instead focuses on mumbling the occasional comment about the grave being “right around here”.   
Eventually, Emma’s questioning gaze becomes too much for Brian and he stops in front of the first headstone to his left. He places the roses gingerly in the grass and begins to think that maybe what he’s doing isn’t so bad. After all, the grave has no other flowers around it. Maybe it’s more of a random act of kindness than an extreme attempt at avoiding looking the slightest bit into guys.   
Emma appears at Brian’s side with a gentle smile and a comforting hand on his bicep. He finds himself resisting the urge to shrug her off. Why? She’s pretty, and sweet, and obviously wants to touch him. Why does the feeling of her against him make Brian want to run and hide? Or more specifically, why does it make him want to run and find Mat?  
“Wow... He’s been gone for a long time. It’s incredible that you still bring him flowers.”  
Shit.  
Brian realizes too late that the guy beneath his feet died when Brian was about six. Kicking himself for not checking the date while simultaneously breathing a sigh of relief that he didn’t pick one from the nineteenth century, Brian nods solemnly to Emma. She looks up at him from her place on his arm. Looks up at him for a very long time. She tilts her chin upwards, and her hands find his cheeks, and little shockwaves of something like panic shoot throughout Brian’s entire body.   
“It’s getting late,” Brian finds himself saying. “We should probably get going.”  
Emma nods, a flush of embarrassment crossing her face. Neither of them says very much on the cab ride home. Emma notices that Brian checks his silent phone very regularly, almost as if he’s expecting a text from someone important. This isn’t entirely true, though. He’s hoping for a text from someone who’s become the only thing he finds important.


	4. Part 4

It takes Mat a very long time to clean the whiskey from the bathroom. Every time he thinks he’s mopped it all up, he discovers a new splash of it on the walls or behind the toilet. The overwhelming scent of it has been overexposed to his brain, and his head is beginning to spin. A few thoughts carousel through his mind – mostly revolving around piecing together exactly what had happened, but one was dominant over all the others. Had he and Brian really kissed again?  
This burning disbelief alone is enough to slingshot Mat back to a fateful night only a few weeks ago.   
It was near the end of the tour, and everyone was getting just a little too comfortable with each other. Brian, Mat and Tom were competing to see who could go the longest without pants on. This idea was brainstormed after Mat and Brian had shared one too many blunts and agreed that pants weren’t necessary to the human person. Tom had interjected from his state of mostly sober competence, saying that Brian and Mat wouldn’t like walking around without pants on. They’d taken this as a challenge, and it was quickly made interesting with the threat of the loser owing the other two fifty bucks.  
Excluding shows and other public things, they spent their time in their boxers. When this unsurprisingly didn’t prove to be much of a challenge, they started to crank the AC in the tour bus and deemed blankets to be cheating. The early April weather in the Northern states made the contest more of a battle for survival.   
Late into a particularly frigid night in Maine, Mat was beginning to weigh the worth of one hundred dollars and his dignity versus avoiding frostbite. He shivered in his bunk, attempting to warm his legs with beer stained puffs of breath. They’d been to a party that night, but the artificial warmth provided by the alcohol was almost entirely gone. Just as he was about to toss in the towel and put on some sweatpants, he heard a shifting in the bunk beneath his and was overcome by a stroke of genius.  
He climbed down as quietly as he could and poked his head down into Brian’s bunk. He was asleep, but a few gentle taps on his shoulder had him stirring. He cracked open an eye, not needing to let his vision adjust to the darkness. He could recognize Mat anywhere.   
“Matty?” Brian whispered.  
“Hey, Brian...” Mat spoke through chattering teeth, crouching down to Brian’s line of sight. “I’m so fucking cold. W-would it be cheating if I just sleep next to you tonight?”  
Brian considered this, chuckling softly under his breath. He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with his hand and arching an eyebrow at Mat. Even through the icy blackness of the bus, a certain energy was bouncing between them that night.  
“You’re cold, huh?” Brian teased. “What, are your legs getting chilly? Might wanna get some pants on before you catch a cold. Tom and I will be having those fifty clams, though.”  
“Come on, Brian... You’re mean. You’re a bully.  
“Who, me?” Brian feigned shock. “You’re the one who’s trying to use me for my body.”  
“Am not. Just asking for a favor from my best friend.” Mat flashed a winning smile at Brian, targeting either his nostalgia or his pity. Brian raised his eyebrows, trying hard not to reflect Mat’s smile right back at him.  
“Well it’d cost you, obviously.”  
“C-cost me what? Name your price.”  
Brian paused, chewing his lip and dragging out the time Mat was spending exposed to the freezing open air of the hallway. He waited until Mat began to shiver more violently, and then opened long, warm arms to him. Mat scurried into Brian’s embrace. He shuddered into the impossible warmth of Brian’s body, cuddling as close to it as he could possibly be and burying his nose in the crook of Brian’s neck. Brian snickered, surprised at how natural it felt to rest his chin on the top of Mat’s head.  
“You’re pretty easy, Mat. You took my deal before I even named my terms.”  
Mat rolled his eyes. “Fine. What are your terms? You’re so warm. Whatever it is, I’m yours.”  
“Whatever, you say?”   
“Just don’t try to make me do condiment shots again.”  
“We were playing truth or dare, Mat. I’ve told you a million times – don’t pick dare if you aren’t prepared for condiment shots.”  
“Whatever,” Mat laughed. “You’re evil, you know that? Evil, but very, very warm.”  
“It’s ‘cuz I’m from Hell.” Brian grinned.   
Mat shaking with laughter between Brian’s arms felt strangely comforting, despite the chill of his skin against Brian’s. For some reason, Brian wasn’t even jarred by the cold. All he could focus on was the skin. In all fairness, he was still pretty drunk from the party and therefore still numb to most sensations.   
“Okay, you ready to pay the piper?”  
“Ugh, no...” Mat groaned, snuggling closer into Brian’s chest. Brian was glad that Mat couldn’t see the smile this brought to his face.   
“Don’t care. All you gotta do is...” Brian realized very suddenly that he hadn’t actually thought of something for Mat to do in exchange for his heat. “Fuck, I dunno. I’m not sober or drunk enough for this kind of thinking.”  
“You want a drink?” Mat grinned.  
“When do I not?”  
“Okay, but you gotta keep me warm on the way there, too.”  
Brian barely stopped himself from expressing just how unproblematic this was for him. Instead, he just laughed and rolled Mat gently off to the side, ignoring Mat’s whispered complaints about the cold. Brian held his arms out for Mat, and Mat stared back at Brian in confusion.  
“What are you doing?”  
“You wanted to be warm all the way out, right?” Brian grinned. His playful mood was only enhanced by the way Mat was reacting to each thing he said.  
“You’re crazy, Brian.” Mat laughed. “You’re gonna drop me.”  
“I’m not gonna drop you,” Brian said as seriously as possible, even making solemn eye contact with Mat until he gave up and edged toward him across the bunk. Slowly and almost awkwardly, Mat wrapped his arms around Brian’s neck. Brian scooped Mat up, stumbling over his own feet in the process and crashing onto the floor beneath Mat. Uncontrollable laughter erupted between them, and Tom’s head appeared from the bunk across from them.  
“What the fuck are you guys doing?” Tom squinted, his eyes strained without the help of his glasses.  
“Don’t worry about it,” chimed Brian and Mat in unison before proceeding to play a loud game of “Jinx”.  
Tom murmured something about being done with their shit before cracking a tired smile and whipping the curtain of his bunk closed. Brian pressed a finger to his lips before readjusting his grip on Mat and slowly rising to his feet.  
It didn’t take long for Mat to get comfortable in Brian’s arms. He snuggled into his neck, secretly enjoying the attention from him. They reached the mountain of six packs in the back of the bus too soon, and Mat and Brian both found themselves disappointed to let go of one another.  
Way too many beers later, Brian carried Mat back to the bunk in a stumbling, drunken fashion that was probably very dangerous. They collided with the mattress in a dizzying crash, their bare legs tangled and their faces flushed and smiling. Cuddling came smoothly and easily, as if it were something they’d always done instinctually. Mat wasn’t very cold anymore, but he found himself not wanting to tell Brian that in fear of losing his snuggling privileges.   
“Alright, Mat...” Brian said slyly once the room stopped spinning. “You ready to pay the ultimate price?”  
“Jesus, are you gonna kill me?”  
“No, no... Maybe.”  
They couldn’t contain their laughter, and Tom hissing at them to shut the fuck up only made it harder to keep quiet. Eventually, Tom’s face pushed between the curtains and banished them to the next room.  
Brian nearly dropped Mat when the bus hit a pothole, but quickly steadied himself against a wall and laughed before setting Mat back onto his feet. Mat half-fell back into Brian’s arms, and Brian smiled into Mat’s hair. For just a moment, Mat thought that Brian had forgotten about the deal they’d made. Brian was breathing softly against the top of Mat’s head. Feeling his breath and his chest rise and fall was all Mat needed to feel safe and warm and happy.   
“Okay, okay, okay...” Brian slurred. “Since you’re just so easy, Mat, I think I’ll go ahead and let you name your own price. You know, like a used car dealership.”  
“Shit, I can’t even think right now.”  
“Sucks for you.”  
Mat rolled his eyes. Even with his best attempts to stay upright, Mat could eventually no longer battle the spinning of his head, and found himself collapsing down onto his knees at Brian’s feet, eye level with a certain part of Brian’s anatomy that he’d never anticipated being eye level with. Above Mat, Brian drew in a slow, stunted breath.  
“Uh, Mat...” For the first time that night, Brian didn’t sound sure of himself. “What are you doing? You know – I mean, that’s not what I meant when I, you know... I mean, that’s not really what I was expecting you to do, but... I mean... I can’t say I’m opposed.”  
“What?”  
Mat looked up at Brian. The sight of Mat in front of him like that burst open the mental floodgates that Brian never even knew he had, conjuring hundreds of filthy thoughts and overwhelming desires all at once. In the occasional slants of streetlights blinking in through the blinds, Brian caught full glances of Mat’s face. It was perfect. Blushing and wide-eyed and perfect. Brian found himself wondering how he’d never seen that before, knowing it had to have been more than just the alcohol and the sexual angle.   
It only took Mat a few moments longer to piece together what Brian thought was going on. He felt shocks of nerves wrack him, a stutter that was no longer due to the cold plaguing his attempts at explaining himself.  
“Oh, no, I swear to God I’m not weird. I – I fell, and I – well, you know...” And then the end of Brian’s rush of awkwardness rose to the top of Mat’s drunken brain. He wasn’t opposed?  
“You fell?” Brian tried to hide the disappointment in his voice.  
“Well, yeah. But... You’re not opposed?”  
Brian shook his head, thankful the darkness was hiding the blush of shame and excitement painting his face. Mat felt his eyes widen. He glanced back at Brian’s boxers, debating a few options in his head. He couldn’t lie to himself. He’d wanted to be with Brian for years. But would he regret this? Would Brian?   
“I’ve never done this before. It’s probably going to be awful,” Mat admitted.   
“That’s okay,” Brian said softly. Before he could allow himself to reconsider, he wrapped his hands around Mat’s face and pulled him upward for a kiss. When they finally pulled away, Brian stopped and stared down at Mat for a while.  
“What’s wrong?” Asked Mat.  
“Just wanna say... You really don’t have to do this, you know. There’s always condiment shots.”  
“Yeah, I know.”  
Brian couldn’t hold in a smile, and Mat drew in a deep breath before fumbling with Brian’s boxers. They hit the floor of the bus with an almost undetectable sound, and Brian’s fingers grasped softly at Mat’s hair, and Mat was glad to know that there was probably no going back.  
The rest of the night was incredible. Every second was filled with tantalizing, desperate contact, and Brian was asleep in Mat’s arms by the time the sun began to creep over the distant mountains.  
The next morning, Mat woke up alone and shivering in Brian’s bed. When he went to get coffee, Brian took one look at him before dropping his eyes to the floor and walking quickly out of the room. If Mat really listened, he could just make out Brian’s voice on his phone, making plans to spend a week or two at home.


	5. Part 5

Brian feels like the biggest dick on the planet walking back into the hotel empty-handed. The flower shop was closed by the time he’d made it back, and he’d run into fans trying to find another one and lost his chance to buy more. He’d even considered going back to the cemetery for the roses, but ultimately decided against it once he realized that it would look like he was stealing flowers from someone’s grave. So guilty and flowerless, Brian reenters the room already in search of anything that will intoxicate him. Of these things, Mat is the first that he sees.  
Mat’s got the TV on, but he’s not really watching it. His fingers are drumming against the arm of the couch while his glazed eyes remain unfocused somewhere behind the television screen. He doesn’t even look up when Brian enters. Brian kicks himself again for abandoning the flowers, wishing more than anything that he could whip them out from behind his back and give them to Mat. He wonders if they’d wipe the tired sadness from Mat’s face. He wishes he’d never met Emma.  
“Hey, Mat.” Brian sits down on the opposite end of the couch as Mat.  
Mat glances sideways at him, and manages a close-lipped, halfhearted smile in his direction. When it becomes clear that Mat isn’t going to say anything, Brian attempts to force an apology out.  
“Look, sorry things got weird last night.”  
“Did they?” Mat can’t keep the spite from his voice. Brian winces.  
“Uh, yeah. I think so.”  
“Right. If you think so.”  
Another agonizing silence ensues, and Brian considers just leaving and trying to talk to Mat again once the events of the previous night aren’t so fresh. Then he remembers every other time he’s chosen to avoid or run away from his situation with Mat, and for the first time he realizes that it might not be the best course of action considering it’s never worked out well. So instead of turning and running, Brian musters up the courage to finally try and talk it out.  
“Look, Mat... Could we talk?”  
The surprise is evident in Mat’s eyes when he shifts them toward Brian. He nods silently, caught off guard by Brian’s spark of directness.  
“Okay,” Brian takes a deep breath. “You like girls too, right? Or is it just me you like? Because I know you’ve been with girls too, and I just gotta know. Did you actually like any of them? Or was it me the whole time?”  
Mat wasn’t expecting this. Brian watches his features shift from confusion, to something like sadness, to a strange smile which arose from his lack of response. He shook his head.  
“I dunno, Brian. I’ve definitely like girls in the past. I think you’re the only guy I’ve ever actually liked.” Mat talks softly, almost like he doesn’t really want Brian to hear what he’s saying. Every word he speaks is like another little firework bursting in Brian’s chest, making his heart speed and his tongue swell up. Mat is more open to talking about it than he’d been anticipating, and now it’s Brian who is at a loss for words.  
“I only really like girls,” Brian says again.  
“So I’ve been told.”  
“What?” Brian feels the blood begin rushing to his temples. “You don’t believe me or something?”  
“I don’t want to fight with you.”  
“Yeah, I know. That’s exactly you’re problem. You never really say what you have to say, and then you blame me when I don’t know what the fuck’s going on with you.”  
“Oh...” Mat considers this, picking at a loose seam of the leather couch. “So you want to really know what’s going through my head?” His tone is slow and even, but pregnant with an edge that makes Brian stop and think before responding.  
“Well, yeah.”  
“Okay. I like you. I’ve liked you for a while, now. And if you want honesty, I’ll be honest. I think maybe you like me, too. Or you’re attracted to me at the very least. Right?”  
“Mat, I’m...” Brian chokes on his words, and Mat looks him dead in the eyes as he clears his throat, and the edge Brian had detected in his voice become a full blade and cuts deeply into Brian’s brain.  
“But I also think that you’re just not a good person.”  
Mat doesn’t give Brian an opportunity to respond to this – he doesn’t see a need to hear what Brian has to say. He’d disagree, probably get furious, and maybe even go off on a tangent about how being straight didn’t make him a bad person. For the first time in his life, Mat doesn’t have the desire nor the energy to listen to what Brian has to say to him. So, he gets to his feet and walks away quickly enough that Brian knew he isn’t interested in hearing him out, but not so quickly that it looked like he's running away. Mat is so sick of people running away.  
When Mat finally reaches his room, he collapses face down the bed. He breathes in as best he can into the soft blankets, and out in a fog of hot, heavy breath. He can’t believe the things he just said to Brian. While they’d been igniting in his brain since the previous night spent on the bathroom floor, they hadn’t felt real until they’d finally escaped through his mouth. Had they been too harsh? He can’t tell. His mind is crowded with hundreds of things, all involving Brian, all angry and embarrassed and guilty and devastated. Still, it feels strangely invigorating to have finally told Brian off.  
Mat holds onto this feeling and this feeling alone. He lets it slowly eclipse all the bad things frenzying within him, and he lets it be the only thing he thinks about as he slowly drags himself off of the bed. He promises himself that from this point on, he is not going to live his life for Brian. He is not going to obsess over cryptic things that Brian says, or replay potentially romantic things that Brian does over and over again in his head. He's going to let himself be free of the overwhelming feelings he’d been harboring for Brian for so many years.  
Mat unpacks his comfiest outfit and assembles it on his comforter. He then takes off his whiskey-stained, pot-scented clothes and throw them into his hamper and out of his mind. He washes his hair for the first time in too long, even using the hotel’s expensive, perfumed products in favor of his typical shampoo-conditioner-body-wash all in one. He takes his time shaving his face, and combing out his wet hair, and dressing himself slowly and methodically. He spritzes with a tasteful amount of his favorite cologne. He decides that he’s going to be better than he could ever be when he was hung up on Brian, and he toasts this resolution with half a bottle of complimentary hotel champagne conveniently stockpiled in his room’s mini fridge. He concludes that he’ll wean himself off being intoxicated around Brian, and that it won’t be too long until being sober around him won’t equal instant excruciation.  
When he deems himself ready to do so, Mat ventures out into the living room, having to force himself not to cautiously scope it out for signs of Brian first. He breathes a sigh of relief when he finds that his boldness has paid off – Brian is nowhere to be seen.  
Proud of himself, Mat prances into the kitchen to have a celebratory bowl of cereal. He finds Tom at the table, scrolling through his cellphone and occasionally taking a bite of the delectable-looking sandwich plated in front of him. The moment Mat catches sight of such a sandwich, all thoughts of stupid, soggy cereal leave his mind.  
“Did you make that?” Mat asks.  
Tom blinks up to Mat and answers the question only once he realizes that he was not being asked if he had invented the iPhone. “Oh, yeah. Why?”  
“What’s on it? It looks really good.”  
Tom smiles and shakes his head. “Can’t tell you, I’m afraid. Not to brag, but it’s kind of an ancient family secret, so...”  
“You’re bullshitting me,” Mat laughs.  
“I swear! It’s my great-great-great grandmother’s famous sandwich recipe, so I can’t just go handing it to just anyone.” As Tom speaks, he secretly notices that something seems different about Mat. He looks more clean, and put-together, and something along the lines of cheerful.  
“If you can’t give me the recipe, maybe you could, ya know, just make one for me?” Mat smiles persuasively at Tom, and Tom rolls his eyes behind his glasses.  
“I get the feeling you don’t care about my family history. You’re only in this because you want a sandwich, aren’t you?” Tom teases.  
“Or, hear me out, or... You could give me the entire family story over a sandwich?”  
Tom caves, as Mat knew he would. He pretends to make a big fuss out of having to get out of his chair and make the sandwich, but his small smile betrays his act. When it comes time to amass the ingredients of his ancient family secret that is actually just ham, cheese and tomato on toast, Tom realizes that he's in too deep to drop the performance just yet. So, he makes a production out of Mat closing his eyes, and then an even bigger production when Mat keeps cracking them open when he thinks Tom isn’t looking.  
“Fine, Mat, you’ve given me no other choice.” Tom chuckles.  
“What do you mean?”  
Tom gives Mat a knowing smile and proceeds to strip down to his undershirt and fashion a crude blindfold out of his sweater. Mat laughs until his face is red, the champagne making the situation a hundred times more hilarious than it is. Tom, who has had his fair share of free hotel alcohol, also can’t contain his laughter as he shoddily slaps the components of the sandwich onto two pieces of slightly burnt toast. When Mat gets bored, he concocts the comedically genius idea of demanding to be fed the sandwich, so as not to ruin the secret. Tom giggles and agrees, missing Mat’s mouth a good dozen times as they both erupt into uncontrollable laughing fits.  
As it turns out, cackling over stupid shit with a good friend may be just what Mat needs to begin to feel good again. When a scuffling of footsteps in the doorway momentarily distracts Tom, Mat still smiles to himself. He can’t help but think to himself that maybe things are finally starting to look up for him.


	6. Part 6

“But I also think that you’re just not a good person.”  
The words poke and prod incessantly at every lobe in Brian’s brain. They don’t just bother him because they’re hurtful, they bother him because they weren’t necessarily meant to be hurtful. That is the worst part. Every mean thing he’d said to Mat had been intentional, designed to make Mat forget or resent any romantic or sexual things they’d ever shared. But when Mat said that to Brian, it stung more than anything because it wasn’t just empty, furious words thrown out during an argument with intent to hurt and nothing else – it was the truth.  
Right on the couch where Mat left him, Brian finally lets himself start to cry. He doesn’t care who’s around or who might walk by. All he cares about is Mat, and all he can think is that he hurt him. He hurt him so badly that in Mat’s eyes, Brian isn’t even good anymore. Brian finds himself starting to agree with Mat as the tears flow freely down his face.   
“Brian?” Tom clears his throat from Brian’s right.  
“The fuck do you want, man?”  
“Are you okay?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Okay, uh... Is there anything you need?”  
“I dunno, Tom, uh... I’m good. Thanks.”  
When Tom insists on doing something to help, Brian finally gets frustrated and asks Tom to please go make him a sandwich. Brian doesn’t actually want a sandwich, he just wants to get Tom’s drunk, overly sympathetic ass off his back. The moment Tom disappears into the kitchen, Brian bolts into his bedroom and locks the door.   
Brian solemnly adds ditching Tom to the list of proof that he is a bad person once he settles down in the space on the floor between a desk and the wall. He fits perfectly in it, like it was designed specifically to fit a sitting, crying Brian Sella. He leans his head against the wall and wonders how he could possibly repair a situation he’s torn to shreds so many times. He wonders if it would even better to try and fix it at this point, or if Mat would rather Brian just stay away from him. Brian hopes to a god he doesn’t believe in that that isn’t the case. He couldn’t ever stay away from Mat.  
Brian sits there for what feels like impossibly long hours before he finally comes to a conclusion. He decides that he has to talk to Mat about the way he feels. In doing so, however, Brian then realizes that he must finally confront the way he feels. He shudders at the thoughts he’s been avidly avoiding since that drunken night on the tour bus. He’d certainly enjoyed what had happened between him and Mat in the moment, but afterwards he’d woken up with a burning, bottomless shame that he hasn’t been able to shake since. It scares him how strongly he feels about Mat, and it also scares him that he can’t put a name on that feeling without wanting to cry harder. Could it be that he has feelings for Mat? If so, there’s no denying that he hasn’t shown it very well.   
After unhelpful pondering such as this drag on for too long, Brian comes to the concept that within the tangled mass of things he doesn’t know about the situation, there is one thing he knows for certain. Brian loves Mat. Whether that love is romantic, or nothing more than deep friendship is irrelevant; Brian can’t let his own idiotic fears ruin a relationship with someone he loves.  
Brian springs to his feet, ignoring the onslaught of dehydrated dizziness that attacks his head as a result. He overpowers the urge to take a drag of the half-blunt he’d left for himself the previous night, and instead ops to go out and find Mat. He mentally rehearses a nonexistent script wrought with apologies and explanations in his head as he goes, a nervous anticipation buzzing in the pit of his stomach. He knows that the words “I love you” can be interpreted a million different ways, but he also knows that this will likely work in his favor as he isn’t certain the way in which he feels it. Plus, for as rightfully pissed off as Mat is, Brian knows that their friendship is stronger than even the amount of times Brian has fucked it up. He understands that they have a bond that could not possibly be ruined by some late-night, incredibly drunk kisses and other things they’d shared. Besides, Mat had made it apparent that he still had feelings for Brian. How could Mat possibly shut him out?  
By the time Brian catches an unintelligible snatch of Mat’s voice and follows it toward the kitchen, a new sense of hope is building inside of him. He is going to treat Mat the way he deserves to be treated, and he is finally going to be a better best friend to him.   
A smile freezes up dead on Brian’s mouth when he reaches the doorway. Mat is sitting on the kitchen counter with what appears to be Tom’s sweater tied over his eyes. Tom is standing between Mat’s legs, very close to Mat’s face, and from Brian can tell they are kissing. Brian feels his knees begin to shake and his fists curl tightly shut as an overwhelming hybrid of dread and fury washes over every inch of him. For some reason, even the thought of Mat kissing somebody else makes Brian want to storm into the kitchen and rip the two of them apart. It makes Brian physically ache to be in Tom’s place, even after he’d spent months vigorously avoiding any form of physical contact with Mat.  
The final straw is hearing Mat’s voice talk to Tom between bursts of giggles – Brian hadn’t even known that Mat was capable of laughing like that.   
“Tom, I swear to god, if you miss my mouth one more time I’m taking off the blindfold and letting your secret get out.”  
“Mat, no!” Tom roars. “Here, I’m coming back, I’ll try harder. I’ve gotta get closer, though...”  
When Brian finally realizes that he literally cannot withstand watching Tom and Mat play whatever weird, blindfold sex game they were engaged in, he turns away so abruptly that he trips over his own feet. This catches Tom’s attention, and he walks toward Brian with raised eyebrows. Thankfully, Mat remains on the countertop with the sweater covering his eyes, a perfect little smile on his lips.  
Brian takes one look at Tom’s smug, lucky face and makes a break for it. Tom shakes his head and returns to poorly feeding Mat the sandwich, blissfully unaware of the pandemonium he’s set off within Brian.   
Brian hits his personal alcohol storage with the ferocity of a raging alcoholic. He downs hard liquors without even stopping to breathe or cringe at the horrible taste. He tries to drink enough to rinse away the image of Tom between Mat’s legs. When that proves to be unsuccessful, he settles for rinsing away what remains of the lines he’d been preparing to tell Mat. He takes a stumbling, skulking walk around the suite, looking for anyone he can pick a fight with to forget his own troubles. Somehow though, Brian seems to be the only person awake in the city that never sleeps.  
Brian has no idea what time it is or even exactly where he is by the times he stumbles back to his room. He quickly comes to regret not checking which room it is, though, when he attempts to collapse into bed and instead collides with a curled-up, sleeping form under the covers. After the first initial moments of pure confusion and fear pass, Brian finally registers the terrified face of Mat through the darkness.   
“Brian?” Mat seems to recognize Brian the moment Brian recognizes Mat.  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck...” Brian falls from the bed with a heavy thud as the result of a somewhat accomplished effort to be anywhere but on top of Mat. Mat peers down at Brian in concern, and Brian flashes him a thumbs up despite it being a ridiculously inappropriate situation for such a gesture.  
“What the fuck are you doing?” Mat’s voice is hoarse with drowsiness and lingering panic from being plopped on while asleep.  
“Got a bit confused. Won’t happen again...” Brian attempts to drag himself up by the covers of the bed, and only succeeds in pulling a heavy pile of them off the bed and onto himself. Brian thrashes drunkenly beneath the blankets, confused at how his foolproof plan to get to his feet had somehow backfired, until Mat finally takes pity on him and steps out of bed to help Brian remove the blankets.   
“Are you drunk?”  
“Nah, not really.” Brian then proceeds to attempt to convince Mat that he’s “drunk on life” and not the mass amount of alcohol he’d chugged.   
Mat listens to Brian like there’s a chance he’ll believe him, but he’s only humoring Brian’s drunken antics as he’s done since they were teenagers. He can’t help it. Brian is so cute when he’s drunk – flushed, and stupid, and smiley. Mat knows that he shouldn’t be talking to Brian, but he sees no other option. How is he supposed to just send Brian away when he’s so adorable? Mat inwardly curses himself for still being Brian’s bitch as he takes a seat on the floor next to Brian and lets Brian rest his head in his lap. He instinctually finds himself playing with Brian’s hair, his fingers twisting around the little curls at the base of his neck. Brian looks up at Mat with wide, bloodshot eyes, and Mat gives Brian a tiny smile that doesn’t reach the rest of his face.  
“Matty?” Brian’s voice is soft, all the anger from earlier subsiding into a dark and heavy sadness.  
“Yeah?”  
“I’m sorry for being such a bad person.”  
“Brian...” The words twist and tangle on Mat’s tongue, and every rational part of him knows that he shouldn’t be saying what he is about to say. “You’re not a bad person. I’m just, like... I’m confused by you, but I shouldn’t have said that. You’re a good person.”  
“I’m not, though.” Brian shakes his head, tears welling up once more in his eyes. “That’s the worst part – you’re completely right. I went on a date today when I just meant to apologize to you, and I didn’t even get you the flowers.”  
“You went on a date?”  
“Yeah, this afternoon. So don’t try to say now that I’m not a bad person, because, Mat, I’m a bad, bad person. I don’t deserve you.”  
Mat considers this, and then doesn’t say much else for the rest of the night. He just listens to whatever drunken things Brian has to say, until Brian starts to nod off. Mat sets him up a little nest of blankets and pillows on the floor beside the bed, and Brian falls asleep instantly as Mat lies awake for the second night in a row.  
The next morning, Mat lets Brian think he returns the blankets and pillow to the bed a and sneaks out of the room without Mat seeing him.


End file.
